


The Call of the Hunt

by Chi-chi-chimaera (gestalt1)



Series: The Most Dangerous Game [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Serial Killers, M/M, Serial Killers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-01-17
Updated: 2012-02-23
Packaged: 2017-10-29 16:39:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 20,180
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/321953
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gestalt1/pseuds/Chi-chi-chimaera
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Serial Killer AU. Sequel to The Most Dangerous Game <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/148209"> AO3 </a> <a href="http://sherlockbbc.livejournal.com/1084350.html"> LJ community </a> You will need to read that first to understand what's going on.</p><p>UNFINISHED/DEAD FIC.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings: Gore, bodily mutilation, amputation, serial killers, murder, mentions of torture  
> Author’s Note: With a new series, I couldn't resist. Particularly as Episode 3 is basically perfect for making darker. Credit goes to [ Ariane DeVere ](http://arianedevere.livejournal.com/26848.html#cutid1) for her excellent and very useful transcripts, which are a great help.

Pain is a familiar friend, a flame that consumes the body but not the mind, not unless it is permitted access. Moriarty has no intention of letting it do any such thing. He must keep his brain free of useless damage signals if he wants to have any hope of outwitting his enemy, of getting out of here. This is a lovely little trap Sherlock has built for him – not the pet, no, the dull little soldier, the tame wolf, claws all wrapped up snug in woven wool, _he_ doesn’t have the imagination. A gift straight from Sherlock, just for him, a deadly present from genius to genius. Even if they think they can kill him here, at least this is still between him and Holmes.

He will not be getting out in one piece though, that much is clear. Jim lets himself wallow in his rage for a few moments, a fire of quite a different sort. To trick him, trap him, using such a disgustingly mundane creature as Molly Hooper... it sets his very blood aflame. But for all he burns – and he is a creature of fire and does nothing but – he does not let it rule him in any of its forms. First he tries to slip the trap, scraping his skin raw as he attempts to force the manacle over his foot. He’s always been thin, fine boned, slippery as a snake, but in this case it seems not slippery enough. But there are always other options. Other methods. He and Sherlock, they’re the same in this, seeing what others can’t. And right now he is aware he can’t risk the blood loss the most obvious course would cost him. He doesn’t really like to be practical – it’s so _boring_ – but he would like being dead even less.

Breaking bones is something he normally leaves to Sebastian, but Sebastian is a little busy being a corpse right now (and that is a kind of flame too, burning the heart and the back of the throat until he banishes it again with a soft shake of his head). Bones take too much time, fists on flesh, or the use of something nice and heavy, solid, metal perhaps, and it isn’t really all that original as a method of inflicting pain goes. Moriarty prefers interesting chemicals, electricity, exotic fauna, unless there’s a need for the resulting corpse to look normal, to look all pretty (he thinks flesh looks more beautiful when it’s been marked, but don’t listen to him, he’s a psychopath). He is careful and methodical with the unfamiliar task, using extreme force and the solid handle of the saw. He switches off the pain. Under other circumstances, and were it not a signal of potentially irreparable damage to his body, he might have taken the time to enjoy it, the unfamiliar flavour of it, but now his only concern is with escape.

Eventually he can slide the cuff over the mangled remains of his foot. Sherlock and his pet are certainly watching him, and he does so enjoy playing to an audience, so he gives them his best smile as he pulls himself upright, one promising to revisit every moment of pain and weakness back on them a hundred fold once he has wriggled out of this mess. Nothing he hadn’t planned to do already, but this deserves something even more special. He will have to think about it.

“London Bridge is burning down, burning down, burning down,” he sings softly to himself.

He limps over to the door, careful not to put any weight on his damaged foot. It leads to a corridor running both ways, lots of other doors, thick ones. A converted warehouse, perhaps on loan from his treacherous once-ally Mycroft. Yes, that sounds about right. And cold, still. He’s wearing his suit from the last, much more fun, warehouse he was in, minus jacket, shoes, socks. Nothing in the pockets, he can tell by the weight. There had been a knife, lock-picks, cash sewn into the lining of his jacket, which is why it was taken. Sherlock would have had to have suffered brain damage to miss them (though love, sentiment, is a _kind_ of brain damage isn’t it?). A pity, but he has done more with less in the past.

There are no traps in the corridor, it doesn’t take more than a glance to see that, and the doors are all locked. Impossible to force them. He’s being herded, and it’s infuriating. He has to hop along, leaning on the wall for support, and as he goes he considers what sort of games might be waiting for him. There’s plenty of material in the endless run of movies in this franchise – things he’d seen for the gore not the plot, well, what other reason could there be? If only more people had the will to slake their vicarious bloodlust in reality rather than through a voyeuristic fantasy, the world would be a much happier place, Jim thinks. He does despair of it rather at times (better to burn it really, much better). But he has enough respect – well, respect, fascination, lust, intrigue, hate... it’s a complicated cocktail of emotions he feels about the younger Holmes – for Sherlock that he’s sure he will have come up with something more personal, more suitable than some faceless, pointless repetition. He can excuse the too-predictable start of the game as creating context. No, the truly interesting part will be further in.

Finally he finds it. Thankfully; for damage is damage and the body merely a body, subject to animal weakness, and pain takes its own toll despite any mental blockades against it. The fire that flares bright as sparks when bones grind together is growing colder outside the little shelter of his mind, he shivers, sweat beads his brow and there is a poisonous weakness in his limbs. He would be in shock, if he permitted himself such weakness.

The tall, wide room is full of wires; tripwires, razor wire, cheese wire, and as he examines the puzzle, details making shapes and patterns of meaning in his head he can see where the infra-red beams must be too. There are a lot of explosives packed under this room, but in small, individual groups, not enough to kill, just enough to maim. He grins. It’s enough to give him hope for Sherlock – there’s a calculated cruelty that is just so much _better_ than any of his previous kills, the ones Moriarty has been keeping careful track of over the years. Even if it’s directed at him, which is less than ideal, it’s a start to making the man see that this is superior in every way than the so-called ‘right’ side of the law.

Except he’s not sure the game is such fun anymore. Not with Sebastian dead, all flayed and hung up like an animal, like prey, not the tiger he is ( _was_ ). Jim wants revenge for it, wants to tear Sherlock and his pet into itty-bitty pieces, wants to douse them in petrol and set them on fire, wants to rip their skins off and stitch them back onto his dear assassin, as though that would bring him back through some kind of dark alchemy. Simply handing him over to the police a broken man is no longer broken enough.

The maze would be far too much for him in his present state, so it’s a good thing he doesn’t plan on going that way. This room is big enough to have windows, blacked out tiny things, small enough that most people would discount them as an escape route. James Moriarty is not most people.

With cameras on him he will only have a limited amount of time before Sherlock notices what he’s doing, but equally he and his pet can’t be too close by, not if there are any more of their tricky little traps around after this one. And he is almost certain (wouldn’t do to be overconfident) that they had underestimated the lengths he is capable of going to, to escape. The window is not far off the floor, and he has only a few wires to navigate to reach it. He strips off his shirt so that he can wind it around his fist to break the glass. It shatters after a few heavy blows, and he peers out into the night as he breaks off the remaining jagged pieces carefully. He’s relatively high up – it must be a good fifteen to twenty feet, but he knows how to fall (learned from Sebastian), and he doubts it will kill him.

After he puts his shirt back on he has to dislocate both his shoulders to squeeze through the narrow space, but what is that when freedom is so close. He can feel the broken edges of glass cutting into his skin, but fresh air and the night are sweet and full of promise. He lets himself drop.

The fall is bad even though he rolls with it; onto hard concrete with the snap of ribs and agony bright as fireworks from his foot. He moans, half delirious, not entirely sure whether he’s feeling it as pain or pleasure at this point. He spends a few long moments lying on his back before the knowledge that Sherlock and his pet must be swiftly headed his way spurs him into action. He pushes himself onto his front, rises to hands and knees, possible safe houses flashing through his head. He’s going to need a doctor, he knows a few his organisation has used in the past, but now Mycroft has turned against him. The elder Holmes is a spider in a web, he likes to give himself the illusion of perfect control (Jim found him useful, but he was never under his _control_ ), and he can’t take the chance. Back in the old days when he still used to get himself a bit banged up in the course of his business dealings Sebastian had been the one to take care of him, but that’s no longer an option (never will be, he wants to scream, of course people die that’s what they _do_ but he and Seb were meant to go out together in one last blaze of chaos and destruction, years from now with the world at their feet and nothing left to burn but themselves).

If he cannot trust his old connections, it will have to be a new one. She’d been sending her feelers out trying to get in touch for months and nothing has been finalised between them yet. She is smart, he’s watched her enough to know that she is no common woman, perhaps even good enough to play the Great Game with Mycroft. A good ally to have.

Not that he _trusts_ Irene Adler. But she needs what he can give her, and she won’t get that if he’s dead. She will do.

\----

“Moriarty escaped from your little game?” Mycroft’s raised eyebrow taunts him with an unspoken ‘ _again_ ’. Sherlock bristles. He had rather more important things on his mind in the warehouse with John’s life at stake, and as for this occasion... well, he’ll accept the blame for not considering the escape route. He’d underestimated their enemy’s resourcefulness.

“He dislocated both his shoulders to squeeze out of a second story window,” John says. “Amazingly the fall didn’t kill him, though the blood loss might have if he didn’t get himself to help in time. It cut him up pretty badly to get out of there – we found a trail on the ground, though it didn’t lead anywhere. ”

Mycroft hums, a small sound of displeasure. Sherlock is less than pleased as well. If it wasn’t for what he’d tried to do to John, Moriarty might have been an interesting man to work with, but now he only cares for vengeance. John is very precious to him, something still startlingly new and unexpected, and he will not allow any harm to come to him. John is _his_.

“I am sure he will turn up again eventually,” Mycroft says, his umbrella inscribing slow, lazy arcs in the air. “I understand if you wish to undertake this personally, but you may be assured that I will offer you any assistance you desire in tracking him down.”

 _Yes, I’m sure you’d take great joy in making us even more indebted to you,_ Sherlock thinks. No. Bad enough he’s agreed to work for his brother, bad enough John is forced to do the same, but Mycroft’s so called ‘help’ is never freely given. They are beholden to him too much already. “I think we can manage on our own, brother dearest,” he says.

Mycroft’s expression is faintly disbelieving but Sherlock has no intention of starting to listen to his disapproval now of all times. “In that case I will leave you to your... investigation. I shall be in touch with your first assignment in the near future.”

“Yes, yes.” Sherlock waves him off. He’s sure it will be very tiresome. Mycroft might have promised him puzzles and John blood, but he suspects John will be getting the better end of the deal, although he may have to learn quickly that the government’s definition of ‘bad people’ may differ quite considerably from his own.

“So where do we start now?” John asks as they leave Mycroft’s latest out-of-the-way meeting place. “We only caught him so quickly last time because of Molly.”

Sherlock allows his lips to twitch upwards into a small smile. “The list of contacts on his phone might be a good place to start.” For John, he can leave off the ‘ _obviously, you idiot_ ’. “I’m sure you will enjoy persuading them to shift their loyalties.”

“I can get imaginative,” John says, smiling softly. Sherlock can think of nothing more perfect than having him here by his side, ready and willing to share the dark and the light both. In that way they are stronger than Moriarty, for they may call on both sides of the law, both sides of morality, whichever fits the situation. “After that sniper, I have a few ideas I’d like to try.”

“Then we should not keep your knives waiting.”

\----

Most of what Moriarty remembers after Irene comes to pick him up is pain, and then the hazy and hallucinatory quality that comes with very good drugs. He floats for a time, caressed by soft flames that tickle instead of burning, envisions floating on his back in a river of blood as it carries him gently down to the sea. Sebastian looks down at him fondly, cups his face in his hands as he kisses him and murmurs, “I didn’t mind dying for you, I didn’t betray you before the end,” and “Kill them for me Jim, make them hurt like I did, I’ll never forgive them for tearing me away from you.” Jim lets himself drift, starts to link strands of thought together through the haze of morphine, starts to plan.

They should have been a trifecta, a trio, with him at the top and Sherlock on his left hand, _sinister_ , as the brain, the mind, the intelligence, Sebastian on his right, _dexter_ , as muscle, emotion, love, if such a thing can exist between creatures such as they. But Sherlock denied it, shattered the mirror, twisted the image, replacing one hound with another and now everything is wrong. He will have his revenge, whatever the cost. Anything. Anything.

He slips through sleep uneasy, dreams of dark things, wolves that devour children, blood on the snow, the shadowed eaves of primeval forests as dark as the heart of the most human monster. He dreams in fairytales that end the way they should, under the wide wings of death.

\----

One week later John is sitting in their kitchen at Baker Street sharpening his knives when Mycroft comes to call. Over the past seven days he and Sherlock have delved deep into the criminal underworld, making their methodical way through Moriarty’s phonebook, and he has seen more of the insides of people than he has at any other time since the war. He has not lost his skill as a surgeon, and it is not so very different to hurt instead of heal, to control death instead of life. These are not nice people; he has no compunctions about killing them, and enjoying himself as he does so. Perhaps it is Mycroft, the sanction of someone ‘official’. Perhaps he simply can’t deny any more than he came back from Afghanistan broken.

“Your brother’s here to see you Sherlock,” Mrs Hudson says from the door. John peers round and sees her looking at the flat in exasperation – it is even more of a mess than usual with bits of information about Moriarty’s empire, his employees, his potential boltholes and safe-houses spread out in some kind of room-sized mind map. Sherlock, who is sitting staring at it all, looks up with a snort of disgust.

“I do admire your sense of décor,” Mycroft says, ascending the last of the stairs into view. John slides his knives back into their protective case and turns the chair to face him, wondering if he should make them a cup of tea. He hasn’t met the man enough times to work out how long he plans on staying, though he has no doubt that even if they weren’t related Sherlock could do so with typical ease.

“Come to send us off on our first ‘mission’,” Sherlock says, not even deigning to look at his brother. It’s at times like these that John wonders exactly what happened between them to make Sherlock resent him so much, whether it was something big, or just many little infringements on Sherlock’s pride, his fierce independence.

“Nothing too far from home just yet,” Mycroft says, holding out a thin folder. “Internal troubles in MI5.”

Sherlock doesn’t look like he plans on moving so John gets up and goes over to take a look. He flicks through the file, skim reading and speaking out loud as he goes. “Rupert Quinn, 46, respected operative, various little things that apparently add up,” he raises his eyebrows, “to him selling government secrets to Iran.”

“He is placed in a position to be familiar with the majority of our usual operatives, which makes you the perfect option. I think it would be best if you made an example of him, _pour encourager les autres_ , you understand.”

“Dull,” Sherlock says. “I thought you promised me _challenges_ Mycroft.”

“Don’t forget that you still have to devise a cover-up for his death.”

Sherlock groans, but says, “Fine. It isn’t as though we have any choice in the matter.”

“No.” Mycroft’s smile is cold, and a little smug, in John’s opinion. “Have you given any thought to your names?”

“Names?” John asks.

“Your designations for our files.”

“John is the Surgeon,” Sherlock announces with a lazy wave of his hand. “He’s already put some work into that identity over the past week. And I shall be the Deducer.”

“The point is to _conceal_ your identity,” Mycroft says, sighing. “Not announce it via an easy internet search and your own personal website.”

“Fine. The Analyst. You’ve got plenty of those running around haven’t you?”

“It will suffice.” Mycroft nods to them both. “Very well. I shall leave you to your work.”

“Good riddance,” Sherlock says, but he takes the folder when John proffers it.

\----

The cuts are shallow; they heal quickly and add to the patterns of old scars littered across his skin, lines of learning, lines of lust. The ribs take longer - they make it hard to breath, leave bruises like ink over his chest – Adler’s pet doctor explains the pattern of his wounds in between doses of drugs, when he rises clear-headed to meet the pain and take stock of his broken body. At least a month for those, bed rest, nothing to do but lie there and think, plot and plan, still needing painkillers too often to do anything _productive_. Jim would snap and snarl at the oh so patronising way the man speaks to him, as though he is some dull, average patient who is too boring to be bothered by weeks of nothing, but he’s too weak, and it isn’t really worth it. He cannot seem to take any pleasure even in contemplating it.

He doesn’t remember when they took the foot. He knew it was inevitable, that it was too damaged to keep, no chance of fixing it up nicely with tiny wires and Meccano, nudging the shattered jigsaw of bones back into place. He would have liked to see it as it went, a more concrete reminder of what he owes Sherlock and his pet, but the absence is enough of a memento. There is something hypnotizing about it, like a trick done with mirrors, sleight of hand. He wants to touch it, run his fingers over the skin and scars and neat pad of muscle over shorn-through bone but it isn’t ready to be seen yet, still raw, healing, becoming.

“You’d better be worth all the inconvenience,” Adler says to him, sometime between the weeks, padding in and out of the spare bedroom in her nice big house to check if he’s rolled over and poked his ribs into his lungs by mistake in the night. She doesn’t know the story yet, he hasn’t told her, he knows she assumes it was some other criminal from the circles he runs in, which is irony enough to make him laugh. He’ll tell her in time. When he needs her to play her part.

Later there is physiotherapy, repetitive exercises to rebuild unused muscle, enough to drown him in ennui like thick black treacle, like tar to fill all the corners of his insides up until it comes oozing out his eyes. He does not like to be patient, but he likes the bed even less after a month of nothing but. The low-banked embers of his rage are the comfort of hot coals swallowed into his stomach, and he meditates on that whilst he goes through the process of rebuilding himself. Sherlock must be wondering where he’s got to after so long.

This weakness is of the body, and therefore unimportant. His mind is scalpel sharp, as hot as the sun and as cold as the depths of space, and it is the only weapon he needs.

\----

“Do you want to know who really did this to me?” Jim asks, limping into Irene’s room and sitting on her bed. It’s been two months and he’s up and on his feet (hah, _foot_ ) at least, using a crutch because he can’t be fitted for a prosthesis for another four weeks yet. The stump has to settle down, find its shape. He likes to think of it as something separate from him, some strange new symbiote that hasn’t quite adapted to its new home yet. Or perhaps it’s a piece of meat that’s simply not done cooking. He lets his fingers trace over his knee, trailing patterns down to empty trouser leg pinned up to itself.

Irene leans back against her armoire, puts down lipstick the colour of flesh sliced down to the muscle. “I don’t recall giving you permission to come into my room.”

Jim smiles, ignores her words. “There is a man who is very much like me, but in some ways far less honest. He claims to be on the side of the angels, but he’s just a devil who likes to play pretend. We were playing a game, Sherlock and I, the best kind of game where the bets are all made in blood, and then he stopped playing fair.” He pouts, though the emotion is so much deeper. (Won’t show her that, won’t let her see a weakness.)

“Do you expect me to feel sympathy for you?” Adler asks. “The only reason I helped you is because you’re going to help me in return.”

Jim lets his eyes widen. “Don’t you want to catch a _monster_ Irene? Don’t you want to put down an animal who’s killed scores of people for the thrill of it? Who pretends to be a detective, to solve crimes, when really he’s nothing but a hypocrite.”

“I have a monster right here in my room.” She tilts her head and smiles a little. “Though why do I get the impression that it’s his hypocrisy that bothers you the most?”

“It did,” Jim says, showing his teeth. “But then he killed my favourite enforcer and tried to play Saw with me. You can understand how that makes it personal.” He can tell from the way she shifts her stance, coy, almost seductive, that she’s considering it. “He has a brother too, the spy type. We had such fun together, tit for tat, a mutual agreement. But he betrayed me. And from a business point of view, well! That’s just. Not. On!”

“What would you like me to do?”

“Beat him. Show Sherlock he isn’t as clever as he thinks he is. _Burn_ him, and his brother too. You’ve enough secrets in your phone for that.”

He knows he has her. Like him, she can’t resist a challenge. It’s the thrill of the game, and it never gets old. Irene picks up her lipstick again, red as the kill.

“I’ve always wanted to be a femme fatale.”

\----

Despite the work Mycroft gives them, they still find time for ordinary cases in between. Mostly these are the things Lestrade sends them, but for whatever reason, perhaps just the hope that casting a wider net will reap a greater number of ‘interesting’ cases, Sherlock makes the decision to open his services to the general public. The response is varied, from minor problems like cheating partners to the truly bizarre, like the case of the comic book characters coming to life that John writes up on his blog as The Geek Interpreter.

Continuing the blog, well, perhaps John just likes to boast about Sherlock. It started as just something to do for fun, but then people outside of their little circle of friends began to show an interest, and he felt he couldn’t disappoint them. Besides, he enjoys crafting their adventures into a proper narrative. Only the ones that are suitable for public consumption though. He’s not the kind of killer who secretly wants to be caught, after all.

God, he’s a serial killer now. It’s such a strange thought. There’s a bit of a thrill in having a secret like theirs, their very own licence to kill. John never feels his leg hurt, there’s no trace of a tremor in his hand. All the danger and excitement he could ever wish for is within easy reach. From a certain point of view, he’s serving his country again, taking out the trash and enjoying it. He might not write them down, but he keeps his own mental scrapbook of his kills, of the ones where Mycroft said, ‘make an example’, the heat of fresh blood pouring over his hands, the twitch of terrified muscles unable to get away, the rabbit-fast beat of a heart sitting in a chest laid open, ready to be grasped in his fingers so he can _feel_ it when they bleed out, or go into shock, simply slipping away at his prompting.

It’s nice. He’s happy. And Sherlock is too.

And then he finds out that he seems to have accidentally made them famous.

There are journalists waiting for them when they come out of the theatre, cameras going off right, left and centre with an overload of stimulation that brings Afghanistan back in a flash of desert-heat and a shock of sympathetic pain in his shoulder before he can get it back under control. He breathes hard, tucks his head down into Sherlock’s paltry disguise and tries not to panic. Internet famous isn’t like real famous, they’ll be forgotten in a week, and even if not, Mycroft can pull some strings. There’s no need to worry that the tabloids will find out something they shouldn’t.

Why oh why did he think writing a blog was a good idea?

\----

Five months have passed since the warehouse (since Sebastian’s death), and Jim is still getting used to his latest prosthesis (another of many, customisable for every occasion!) when Adler calls. He smiles. Oh yes, he’s seen the papers as well. Fame is a foolish step for that pair to take, so easy to turn, so easy to twist and change, the tabloid rags with their fangs out baying for blood, unfussy over the source. Idiots. They have too much to hide. Better to slink in shadows like him.

“Yes. It’s time.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: John does get rather jealous in this chapter.

It feels like John has barely gotten in the door after his flight back from Dublin – former member of the IRA, a simple kill that hadn’t required Sherlock’s intellectual talents – before Sherlock is chivvying him out again, this time to investigate what he describes as a ‘mildly interesting’ crime scene in the middle of nowhere. Sherlock isn’t even dressed when he leaves, which John finds particularly unfair, seeing all his long lines half-hidden under a sheet, all promise and no satisfaction. He likes to fuck Sherlock after a kill, half-drugged on blood-lust, and he’s been waiting for hours, but no. Murder calls, and not one of their own. 

There’s a quiet simmer of frustration sitting in the pit of his stomach all through the long cab ride out to the middle of nowhere. John tries to put it out of his mind as he watches the sprawl of London transition to the green and verdant countryside, the clouds slow-moving wisps like cotton overhead. Mostly it’s sexual, but he thinks a part of it is because it wasn’t a very satisfying kill, all told. Over too quickly. With people like that, criminals, immoral men and very occasionally women, he likes to stretch it out, take his time, savour the pain and agony before the eventual death. It’s nothing more than they deserve after all. But circumstances dictated a quick knifing, the old ‘mugging gone wrong’ stand-by, and while it is nice to feel them struggle against you while the blade goes in (striking heart or aorta, jugular or femoral, hot spray of blood over your hands) there’s no time to enjoy it. 

All it means is that when he finally gets to the crime scene, he’s in no mood to put up with Sherlock’s bullshit. He could happily do several nasty but not quite lethal things to Mycroft for setting them up with the top-of-the-line high-definition Wi-fi video link which lets his partner be so bloody lazy. Still, he does as he’s told, walking Sherlock round to look at the river, the grass, the corpse, the car, whatever he needs. At least then he doesn’t have to look at the pale expanse of Sherlock’s throat, just the right width for his hand to wrap around, the pale hint of pectoral peeking out from the bed-sheet. 

It’s a clean kill, that much he can tell. A single blow to the back of the head, dropping the man like a cow stunned in the slaughterhouse. A relatively narrow, solid weapon, a length of wood perhaps, or a metal pipe. Of course, it won’t be anything that simple, not with one of Sherlock’s cases. These things never are. John passes the laptop over to the local Inspector so they can discuss the suspect, threatening to use the mute button as he does so. If there’s anything Sherlock hates, it’s being silenced, so he has some hope that threat might work on him, at least for a while. 

Sherlock takes the suspect to pieces for them, his words dissecting as sure as scalpels. John smiles to himself. There’s a wonder and a beauty in what Sherlock can do, even though it can often lack kindness, and he always enjoys seeing him work. He had noticed the probability of the man’s heart condition on the way out the door, but as usual the rest of it is beyond him. He hears Mrs Hudson come into the room as he takes the laptop back from the DI, but he doesn’t think anything of it until the severe man in the suit comes into view on the screen, saying a few words before cutting off the signal. He is wary and suspicious immediately, possible danger scenarios flicking through his mind, but then the young cop points out the helicopter just coming into hearing range and his thoughts snap onto a different track. 

Mycroft has another job for them. An urgent one.

\----

Of all the places Mycroft could have brought him too, Buckingham Palace hadn’t been on John’s list. The kinds of things they do for him aren’t exactly those that would get official acknowledgement, much less the royal seal of approval. This must mean that it isn’t going to be one of their regular jobs, or at least not one of their regular _Mycroft_ jobs. Is it possible that the elder Holmes actually wants them for something legal?

When he is escorted into one of the many waiting rooms to see Sherlock still wearing nothing but a sheet it is all he can do not to burst out laughing. Trust Sherlock not to hold the slightest respect for the dignity of a British Institution. He goes to join his partner on a couch which may very well be older than he is, staring around at the fine tapestries that decorate each wall. Eventually his gaze is drawn back to Sherlock though, which is when he realises that he may not even be wearing any pants under that robe.

“No,” Sherlock drawls in answer to his question, and then John really does start to laugh at the sheer absurdity of the situation. 

“Buckingham Palace,” John says, in a tone of disbelieving wonder. “I’m seriously fighting the urge to steal an ashtray.” He feels like they’re a pair of naughty schoolboys on a field trip. It’s a little ridiculous. “What are we doing here Sherlock? No, seriously, what?”

“I don’t know,” Sherlock replies, amused and at ease. No doubt he has made the same deduction as John – not one of Mycroft’s usual. 

“Here to see the Queen?”

“Oh, apparently yes,” Sherlock says as Mycroft appears, and John starts giggling again. It isn’t really appropriate, considering the power the man holds over them both, but he doesn’t give a damn. Mycroft isn’t that petty anyway. 

“Can the pair of you act like grown-ups for once?” Mycroft says.

“We kill people,” John replies. “How much more grown up do you want?”

“Be that as it may, that is not why you are here today, as you have no doubt deduced.” He picks up the carefully folded pile of Sherlock’s clothing and makes a motion towards the door with a subtle clearing of his throat. When Sherlock does not move – and John hadn’t really expected him to – he straightens with a glare. “We are in Buckingham Palace, the very heart of the British Nation. Sherlock Holmes, put your trousers on!” 

The sibling quarrel that follows might have gone on for some time – if this isn’t a case requiring their illegal talents, Sherlock evidently sees no need to feign politeness – if the other man hadn’t arrived at an opportune moment. John looks him over, expensive suit, rather loud tie, like a slightly less capable version of Mycroft. He certainly greets him like an old friend. 

Pleasantries are dealt with, ‘Harry’ complementing him on his blog, which is a rather nervous moment, and Sherlock being, well, Sherlock, and looking as imperious as any Roman senator in his bed-sheet toga. And of course in his imperiousness, refusing to have anything to do with a case in which the identity of his employer is unknown. John suspects it is in fact down to having the opportunity to refuse Mycroft something. Their little agreement does not cover his detective services after all. Sherlock is just turning to storm off majestically when Mycroft steps forwards just a little and puts his foot down on the trailing edge of the sheet. 

John and Sherlock have an active sex life and he’s never been ashamed of that, but it’s one thing to admire the marks made on skin by a riding crop or a bamboo cane or the initials J.W. carved into the skin at the base of Sherlock’s spine when he’s sprawled, well-fucked, across their bed, and quite another to see them under the broad light of day in _Buckingham Palace_. He can feel his face go red, and Sherlock jerks to a halt, grabbing for the remains of the sheet and his dignity. 

“Get off my sheet,” Sherlock snarls into the awkward silence. 

“Or what?” Mycroft says.

“Or I’ll just walk away.”

“I doubt that. There are some things which should be kept... private.” John doesn’t need the pointed look Mycroft gives Sherlock’s scars to get the point. “Put. Your clothes. On.”

Sherlock glances at John. John nods. Sherlock does as he’s told.

\----

Irene is just on her way home from a pleasant morning with a city banker when James Moriarty sends her a text. She can’t help smiling when she sees it; _I’m sending you a treat_. For all his mercurial moods, the thread of violence constantly burning under the surface of his skin, the man has a sense of humour. There’s something rather playful about him for a criminal mastermind. All the more unexpected for the state she’d found him in after picking him up from one of the less savoury parts of London all those months ago. 

She flicks through the pictures. A pale, tall, dark-haired man wrapped in a sheet, elegant despite it. He’s handsome, certainly, and he looks like they would both enjoy putting him in his place. Irene has a very definite split in her mind between the pleasure she takes in her work and the pleasure she takes in her personal life. Being a dominatrix has far less to do with sex than most people would think. Submission is mental, and that is the way she prefers it. Very few men can excite her lust. This man might turn out to be one of those few.

 _He hardly looks like a serial killer_ , she texts back. She knows Moriarty’s reputation, and she knows not to trust him. She wouldn’t put it past him to lie about what happened to him if it was somehow for his own benefit. 

_We rarely do_ , James replies. _Don’t get cocky. And watch out for the dog. He bites._

\----

Jealousy. John finally identifies the emotion curdling his stomach while he watches Sherlock going through his extensive wardrobe, looking for the perfect costume. He is jealous of Irene Adler, and Sherlock hasn’t even met her yet. 

_You’ve got no reason to be jealous_ , he tells himself, trying to work out why this is getting to him so much. _Just because she’s a professional, and you’re still fairly new to the whole game. Just because she’s clever and Sherlock loves clever. Just because she’s really attractive and..._ Alright, maybe it’s not exactly a mystery why he’s feeling this way. But his doubts have no real foundation. He doesn’t doubt that Sherlock feels a great deal for him – he’s hesitant to call it love because who can tell with Sherlock Holmes – and there is of course the one thing they share that Irene can’t hope to replace; a shared fascination with murder. 

Finally Sherlock emerges in the same clothes as when he went in. John rolls his eyes but makes no comment. Sherlock will have his reasons, and if he wants to let John in on the secret, he will. In the meantime it isn’t really urgent, so he doesn’t actually care. 

“Ready to go then?” he asks. “Finally made a decision?”

“Obviously.” Sherlock sweeps past him in a whirl of heavy Belstaff fabric. “Our taxi should be waiting outside.”

“So what’s the plan then?”

Sherlock smiles. “All in good time.”

\----

Sherlock stops in a quiet, out of the way part of the street, whirling round to face him.

“Punch me in the face.”

John blinks, bemused. “Really? Right now?”

“Yes, John, didn’t you hear me the first time? Punch me in the face.” John shrugs. Alright. He can go with this. It’s not exactly their usual setting but if that’s what Sherlock needs... 

He doesn’t hold anything back. There’s no point, Sherlock can take it, and anyway he’d be able to tell if John wasn’t putting his full strength into it and he would be insulted by it. The blow lands on Sherlock’s cheekbone, hard enough to bruise, hard enough to split the skin. Sherlock reels back, recovers with the hint of a smile on his lips, touching the wound lightly. 

“Thank you, that was...”

John doesn’t give him time to complete the sentence. The next blow is to the solar plexus, knocking the wind out of him, and John hooks his foot round Sherlock’s ankle, bringing him to his knees. Sherlock looks up at him, heaving for breath, and John slaps him one, two, three times before grabbing a handful of his hair, pulling his head back to expose the length of his throat. God, he looks perfect. 

Sherlock makes a needy, keening little noise in the back of his throat. He looks dazed, already starting to slip into that submissive, pliant state. “I thought... in public,” he says. “You said bit not good.”

“You asked. I assumed you needed it.”

Sherlock blinks, trying to re-engage his brain. “Disguise,” he says finally. 

John makes a thoughtful noise. Almost absent-mindedly he cups Sherlock’s jaw with his free hand, rubbing his thumb over his cheek. Sherlock’s eyes flutter closed in pleasure. “You might have said.”

Sherlock gives him a look that says he thinks it ought to have been obvious. He tries to get up, but John pushes him back down with a solid tug of his hair. 

“While you’re down there,” he says in a conversational tone, “I thought I’d remind you what Mycroft said. This woman is _dangerous_ Sherlock.”

Sherlock smirks. “Jealous, John?”

“Do I need to be?”

“If I’m bad, will you punish me?” Sherlock asks, lowering his voice into that smoky, rumbling baritone of his that goes straight to John’s cock. He swallows and tries to get his mind back where it should be.

“Only if you deserve it.” 

“Oh, I’ll do my best.”

“Alright, yes, sounds good,” John says, the words practically tripping out of his suddenly-dry mouth. He lets go of Sherlock’s hair. _Business,_ John, _business_. They have some incriminating photographs to retrieve. Yes. Better get on that. 

\----

In the end the only real choice is to bare it all. If Sherlock Holmes is as much a mirror of Moriarty as he claims, he can read the tiniest piece of information from the clues of dirt and wear in any garment, and she’s had quite enough of Jim doing that to her whenever he is the slight bit bored. Make-up and skin she is less worried about; that is always a mask for her, and it reads what she has written. She is no stranger to the concept of deduction, albeit her own particular form which is less concerned with things and places than it is with people themselves. You don’t get to be as good as she is without being able to look into someone’s eyes, read their hearts and know all their most secret desires. 

Holmes, of course, arrives with the intent to fool her. But forewarned is fore-armed, even though she would never believe such a simple disguise – you only have to look at the man to know he is the opposite of holy. She revels in the sudden shock that comes over his face when he sees her, the train of his thoughts thoroughly derailed. She isn’t foolish enough to think it’s anything more than the surprise of the truly unexpected; his gaze after the initial moment is too clinical, lingers in the wrong places for true attraction. No, he has little interest in the physical, or at least that which comes with curves. Luckily her body is hardly her only weapon. 

“Oh, it’s always hard to remember an alias when you’ve had a fright, isn’t it,” she says, moving closer. She relishes the confusion on his face. His eyes flick this way and that, trying to read her, but he clearly isn’t getting anything. It must be so unpleasant for him. 

She is close enough now to get a proper look. It’s in the face, the micro-expressions the most telling, though body language is important too. Her hand reaches out and plucks the dog-collar from his neck. “Well there now. We’re both defrocked.” His expression is, on the face of it annoyed, but she doesn’t miss the infinitesimal lean in, the sudden flicker of excitement. Yes, submissive tendencies. It’s much harder to tell from a photograph, but it appears she got it right. 

“Mr Sherlock Holmes.”

“Miss Adler, I presume.” Oh, that is a _very_ nice voice. Intellectually gifted, handsome, and as of yet no sign of homicidal intentions. She can’t imagine why Moriarty wants him dead. 

“Look at those cheekbones,” she says, keeping her charm on full. Even if it doesn’t turn him on, it’s a distraction, and it will help her in this game. Oh, this _is_ fun. “I could cut myself slapping that face.” And judging by the faint marks, perhaps someone has. The same one he’d gotten to punch him in the first place? “Would you like me to try?”

Not too surprisingly, there’s a part of him that would. Excellent. She is just moving forward to bracket his knees with hers, the dog-collar now clutched between her teeth, when they are interrupted. 

“Right, this should do it.” As she snaps her head up to look, she locks eyes with the short, unassuming man who has just appeared bearing a bowl full of warm water and a towel, and so she sees the killer lurking behind his gaze for just a moment, woken in sudden anger, before it is locked away again behind the seemingly harmless facade. In that moment she knows that he would kill her quite happily, would enjoy doing so. She backs away from Holmes, reeling inwardly though careful not to show it. Suddenly she doubts Jim’s story much less. 

“I’ve missed something haven’t I?” The voice is mild, but even hiding his true nature the man is still telegraphing ‘back off’ and ‘mine’ with every inch of his body. Irene takes the dog-collar out of her mouth. This will require a more subtle touch. 

\----

The moment he sees Irene Adler he wants to kill her. It isn’t the best of first impressions. She is naked, completely and utterly naked, and she’s looming over Sherlock, she is _touching_ him, he wants to dip her hands in acid and hold them there until there’s nothing left but bone. He wants to wrap his hands around her neck and squeeze until he can’t feel her pulse anymore and the light goes out of her eyes. 

He manages to hide his murderous impulses though, because they are here with a job to do. Adler backs off when she sees him, reacting to his deceptively calm words. There’s a flicker of something strange in her eyes as she turns away, something almost nervous, but then she is calm, cool, and collected once more, utterly comfortable in her own skin. 

“Please, sit down,” she says, “or if you’d like some tea I can call the maid.” From playing the seducer she has now transformed into a caricature of a perfect host. John doesn’t trust her in the slightest. He looks to Sherlock, who seems... unflustered. Mostly. There’s a slight wariness, a sense of something a little off balance that John can only detect because he knows the man so well. 

“I had some at the palace,” Sherlock says, settling back in his seat. Adler takes the nearby armchair, curling about herself with the easy sensuality of a cat, though choosing to cover herself up now that those... parts of her... are apparently no longer required.

“I know,” she says. John isn’t quite sure what to do with himself, despite the invitation to sit. He is still holding the bowl of water, rapidly cooling, and the small napkin which had been all that he could find in the kitchen that he judged suitable for first aid purposes. He doesn’t know what to do with it now that their cover is blown. It’s a rather frustrating sign of his recent immersion in the art of murder that violence is the only back-up he can think of. 

Sherlock is looking her over now with that calculating look that means he is trying to deduce someone. And yet there is something wrong. He looks over at John, his eyes flicking with surety over particular places on his person, and then they return to regarding Adler. Is she really proving such a mystery to him? John doesn’t think he’s ever seen Sherlock this stumped. 

“Do you know the big problem with a disguise Mr Holmes,” Adler says. “However hard you try, it’s always a self-portrait.”

“You think I’m a vicar with a bleeding face?”

“I think you’re damaged, delusional, and believe in a higher power. In your case it’s yourself. As for morality, well. I’d think someone like you would have less than favourable opinions on the moral strength of religion.” That last part is a little too close to the truth for John’s liking. Irene Adler is a like looking into a mirror of Sherlock; the same dark hair, pale porcelain skin, poise, and perhaps equally clever. He hopes not. Mycroft wouldn’t be pleased if someone guessed their little secret. Although it might give him an excuse to eliminate the threat. 

“And somebody loves you.” Irene leans forward and John just barely manages to control his reaction at her getting too close to Sherlock again. He’s never been a man easily given to jealously in the past, but then the stakes have never been as high as they are with Sherlock. “If I had to punch that face, I’d avoid your nose and teeth too.” She’s right, damn her. 

“Could you put something on please?” he says. It nearly comes out a growl. “Anything at all. A napkin.” 

“Why? Are you feeling exposed?” 

_Your heart could be exposed soon if I cracked open your sternum_ , John thinks. Sherlock reads the look on his face of course, and gets to his feet, offering his coat out for Adler to take. She accepts, which is good, because John doesn’t quite like to think what he’d do if she didn’t. _Stop it_ , he tells himself. _This is not appropriate behaviour!_

“Well, we have better things to talk about,” Adler says, wrapping the Belstaff around her. “Now tell me, I need to know. How was it done?”

“What?” Sherlock asks.

“The hiker, with the bashed in head. How was he killed?”

“That’s... not why I’m here,” Sherlock says slowly. 

“No, no. You’re here about the photographs, but that’s never going to happen and since we’re just here chatting anyway...” John wonders how exactly she even knew about it. It’s too soon for it to be in the papers or even online. Exactly what kind of connections does she have? 

“I know one of the policemen,” Adler says in reply to his question. “Well, I know what he likes.”

“Oh.” As information networks go, it certainly has scope. Considering what Mycroft told them about her clientele, it doesn’t take Sherlock to see the possibilities. He considers mentally upgrading her threat level, but he thinks it’s already as high as it can go. “And you... like policemen?” It’s a clumsy attempt at drawing out information, and he can see by her smile that she knows it. 

“I like detective stories. And detectives. Brainy’s the new sexy.” The napkin and the bowl of water are still in his hands. He could wet it, twist to straddle her and suffocate her in less than a minute. It’s only been a day since he last killed but he would happily do it again.

“Positionofothecar.” Sherlock blinks and tries again, slower. “Position of the car relative to the hiker at the time of the backfire, that and the fact that the death blow was to the back of the head. That’s all you need to know.” He’s pacing, uneasy. Adler is _getting_ to him, John realises. Frankly the sooner they can get this over with and get out the happier he’ll be.

“Okay, tell me; how was he murdered?” Which, it he’s honest is something John wants to know the answer to as well. Sherlock hasn’t seen fit to enlighten him yet. 

“He wasn’t.”

“You don’t think it was murder?”

“I know it wasn’t.” Oh, he’s _enjoying_ this. This just isn’t on.

“How?”

“The same way I know the victim was an excellent sportsman recently returned from foreign travel and that the photographs I’m looking for are in this room.”

“Okay, but how?”

“So they _are_ in this room. Thank you. John, man the door. Let no-one in.” Ah, John knows where this is going now. It’s something they’ve done on cases like this before. He nods to show Sherlock that he understands, then makes for the hallway. Something for him to do at last. There must be something handy to burn around here, and frankly, it will be cathartic. Unfortunately _actually_ burning the house down would be counterproductive. Still, he can dream.

\----

Sherlock knows that they have run into something of a problem the moment he hears the subdued gunshot. While John often carries his own firearm when they work a case, today he only has a knife in his boot, as well as two others hidden in the lining of his coat. This is someone else, someone unexpected, and he cannot theorise further without data. _John_ , flits through his mind quickly before he reminds himself that his partner can certainly handle himself if necessary. Yet that does nothing to lessen his distress when the door opens and he sees a stranger pointing a gun at John’s head. 

“Hands behind you head,” the man at the front snaps – American, CIA most likely, arrogant, somewhat competent, hasn’t been in the country more than a few weeks, drinks health shakes and eats fruit at breakfast (tiny marks from the juice visible on his collar) – before pointing his gun at Irene and addressing her directly. “On the floor. Keep it still.”

“Sorry Sherlock,” John says, as he is forced over to kneel next to Miss Adler. There is a quiet anger clearly readable in every line of his body, the predator just waiting to be let loose. Sherlock takes in the trio of intruders in an instant and analyses the situation. They caught John off guard and were positioned in such a way as to make taking them down without injury or death impossible. Wisely John sought to wait for the opportune moment, which Sherlock is sure he can arrange. He is certain Irene is capable of taking down the man on her if he is distracted, John will handle the man in the middle, all that remains is to lure the one in charge close enough to strike. A concerted effort will be all that is needed. 

“Don’t you want me on the floor too?” he asks. Before they act he needs more data – why are these men here, does Mycroft know about it (unlikely or he would have warned them, working off the grid perhaps, taking the _initiative_ ) are they likely to be missed if they disappear?

“No sir, I want you to open the safe.” My, but he is angry. Whatever Irene has that he’s after, it is clearly of great importance. 

“American, interesting,” he says, hoping to provoke something by such facile deductions. “Why would _you_ care?” As if the basic outline wasn’t obvious. But he is willing to condescend to playing the fool if it will allow for the acquisition of more data. 

“Sir, the safe _now_ please.”

“I don’t know the code.” He glances over at Irene, makes eye contact. She’s clever enough, she ought to understand what he is trying to convey. 

“We’ve been listening, we know she told you.”

True enough, though as of yet the strands of information have not come together to form a whole; the passcode is tantalisingly close, just on the edge of understanding. “If you’ve been listening you know she _didn’t_.”

“I’m assuming I missed something. From your reputation, I’m assuming _you_ didn’t, Mr Holmes.” So they know who he is. _Interesting_. Is it through Mycroft, or a more mundane kind of fame? If the former, is he aware of their role in the shadows? Insufficient information. 

“Irene is the one who knows the code,” John says. He raises his head to look at Sherlock. _I know what you’re planning, but you’d better hurry up._ “Why don’t you ask her?”

“She also knows the code that automatically calls the police and sets off the burglar alarm. I’ve learned not to trust this woman.”

Irene speaks up. “Mr Holmes doesn’t know...”

“Shut up,” the American says, with such venom that there is the hint of the personal about it. A dissatisfied customer, Sherlock wonders? A bit outside his pay grade though. “One more word out of you, just one, and I will decorate that wall with the insides of your head. That for me will not be a hardship. Mr Archer, at the count of three, shoot Doctor Watson.”

Sherlock’s eyes narrow. This crosses a line that he is not willing to see crossed. This ends, now, while the man is still distracted by Irene. “Now,” he shouts, darting forward and sweeping the gun out of the way so that it discharges harmlessly into the wall. Behind him he hears the gurgle of someone dying on the end of one of John’s knives, and he feels a kind of vicious satisfaction. He grapples for the gun, twists it out of the man’s hands and uses it to strike across his jaw with bone-shattering strength. The man drops. He flips the pistol round and shoots him in the head, twice just to be safe. When he turns around, Irene is holding a gun on her agent, and the other is on the ground, bleeding from stab wounds to the gut and groin (femoral artery, bled out in seconds). 

“Nicely done,” he says to them both, then raises an inquiring eyebrow at John, whose face is splattered with arterial spray like bizarre war-paint. John nods, and moving behind the remaining man, grabs his hair to tilt his head back and slits his throat. He is careful to cut only one side and direct the resulting torrent away from Irene. Getting blood on his Belstaff coat would be intolerable. It is far too difficult to clean. 

“Marvellous.” Sherlock turns back to the wall safe. Passcode, passcode, something personal to Irene, something he has already seen or been told... ah! He inputs her measurements, then stands well to one side so that the inevitable booby trap can fire into the wall behind him. 

“A warning might have been nice Sherlock,” John says, not flinching so much as reacting, the trained response of the soldier. 

“Sorry,” Sherlock says, because it’s John. He reaches inside the safe and swipes the phone that lies within. He can already tell from the shape and heft that it is a custom job, top of the line with excellent encryption and undoubtedly an expanded memory. Information acquired, now they have to leave. “There’ll be more of them. They’ll be keeping an eye on the building.”

“How quickly can they get here?” John asks. He is alert and focused; a wolf on the hunt. His tongue absentmindedly sneaks out to lick the blood from the corner of his mouth. 

“Not quickly enough, but we can’t stick around.” 

Time enough to gloat though. Mission accomplished. Mycroft will be pleased.


	3. Chapter 3

John’s heart is pumping with adrenaline, with the thrill of murder. He can taste blood on his lips and it’s making him hard. Things aren’t over yet though; there may be more of the Americans to come, and they may need to die too. Every sense is alert, battlefield ready; he has thought at times that this is what it must be like for Sherlock all the time, this hyperawareness. 

Sherlock pauses in the lounge with Adler, letting him go and check the rest of the house, and John sees him toss an expensive looking phone casually, catches part of his conversation – though gloating would be a more accurate description. He smiles, heading upstairs to see what the spies might have been doing up there. There is still one person in the household unaccounted for – he hasn’t forgotten the woman who let them in, the one Adler had referred to as ‘the maid’. 

He finds her supine on the floor of the bedroom, unconscious or dead. Not that he really cares either way, but he still checks. Her breathing is slow and overly shallow as is her pulse, signs that they drugged her with something when they came in. Not a dart – there’s no puncture mark anywhere visible, and they weren’t carrying any weapon that could have fired one. He thinks almost idly how easy it would be to lay his free hand on her throat, press down gently but firmly then blame it on the dead men downstairs. What kind of emotional reaction would it get from Adler? Honestly he has no idea, and he decides against the experiment. This woman hasn’t done anything wrong, and it wouldn’t be right to take out his frustration with Irene Adler on her. 

He gets up and checks the bathroom where the window is wide open. He can hear footsteps on the stairs, and a moment later Sherlock appears, Adler close on his heels. “They must have come in this way,” he says looking over as they enter the room, keeping his eyes on Adler. He doesn’t trust her. 

“Clearly,” Sherlock says. His eyes flick around, taking in information. He too checks the en-suite. Adler on the other hand looks to the unconscious woman, and there is a flicker of what might be worry on her face. 

“It’s all right,” John says, something making him offer words of comfort, though he hasn’t the faintest idea why. “She’s just out cold.”

“Well god knows she’s used to that,” Adler says. Hmm. From that it sounds like they’re in a relationship of some kind, though Irene hadn’t wanted them to know that before. Or maybe the lack of closeness and affection is all part of whatever they have going. “There’s a back door,” she continues. “You’d better check it Dr. Watson.”

He has no intention of taking _orders_ from this woman, but what she says makes sense. He hesitates for a moment, looking over at Sherlock for confirmation that he’s okay to be left alone with her – though he’s not entirely sure of the man’s judgement right now – but with Sherlock's nod he heads back downstairs. Perhaps there will be someone down there that needs killing.

\----

Irene breathes a silent sigh of relief the moment the man is out of the room. He hasn’t made even the slightest attempt to wipe the blood off his face, and she’s sure she saw him licking his lips more than once. He’s a cold-blooded killer and she wants him well away from her, the more so because of what she’ll have to do to his boyfriend to get the phone back. Letting Sherlock see it, touch it, is just a tease, it’s far too early in the game to let him keep it. They’ve planned this all out carefully, she and Jim, though the Americans were something of an unpleasant surprise. No matter. They’re out of the picture now. 

Sherlock has his back turned, examining her phone. He can’t see her retrieve a syringe full of ketamine from her dresser drawer, hide it against the folds of his borrowed coat. The sedative is a present from Moriarty; though it acts on the same receptors in the brain as heroin rather than cocaine, Sherlock’s apparent drug of choice, it still gives ‘cocaine-like stimulation’ and a drug is a drug. Perhaps it isn’t playing fair, but now that she is more sure what these people are capable of, she has fewer scruples. 

“You’re very calm,” Sherlock says suddenly. She looks at him blankly, unsure quite what he’s talking about. 

“Well we did just kill three people in front of you.” 

_Yes and forewarned is forearmed,_ she wants to say, or _It isn’t as if you or Dr Watson are bothered that I saw you so why even ask._ Instead she settles for, “They would have killed us. It was self defence.”

She steps closer to him, the syringe at the ready. He’s casual, relaxed with the arrogance of thinking he’s won. It’s simple to reach out and run her hand down his arm in a parody of flirtation, distracting him just enough to plunge the needle into his shoulder. He gasps, whirls around and stumbles trying to pull it out but the drug is already starting to take effect. 

“What... what is that?” he demands, anger – definitely murderous, considering what she knows of him – flaring on his face before it starts to go slack and fuzzy. She slaps him for good measure. This is the most crucial moment; if John Watson comes back before she has the phone she’s as good as dead. 

“Give it to me. Now.” He’s got it clutched in a death grip, damn him. “Give it to me.”

“No.” He falls to hands and knees, and it would look wonderful on him if only there weren’t far more important things at stake. 

“ _Give it to me_.”

“No!”

“Oh for goodness sake.” She doesn’t have time for this. It won’t take Watson long to check the door. She whirls round and grabs the first thing that comes to hand, her riding crop. Meant for better circumstances, but judging by the man’s sexual psychology perhaps it will make him more amenable to following orders. “Drop it.”

She lashes out, striking him across the face in punctuation to her words. “I said drop it!” 

Finally it falls from his hand as his back hits the hard-wood floor. She scoops it up and checks it for damage. Of course there isn’t any, it’s hardier than that, and he hasn’t had time to guess the code. That itself is Jim’s little joke to him. An amusing pun and a sort of half-affectionate threat, though how he can find it in him to be _affectionate_ after what these people are supposed to have done to him she’ll never know. She doesn’t want to know what _James Moriarty_ likes. 

“Thank you dear,” she says. “Now tell that sweet little posh thing the pictures are safe with me. They’re not for blackmail, just for insurance.” _These_ ones at least. “Besides, I might want to see her again.”

Gasping – bronchodilation, the ketamine doing its work – Sherlock writhes onto his side, trying to get up. She nudges him back over with her foot, unable to resist trailing the tip of the crop over those striking cheekbones, along the line of his jaw. Mmmm. “No, no, no, no. It’s been a pleasure. Don’t spoil it. This is how I want you to remember me. The woman who beat you.”

She knows she’s already stayed too long but she can’t resist a parting shot. “Good night, Mr Sherlock Holmes.”

She hadn’t heard anyone on the stair, but the snarl of pure rage behind her is unmistakable. Her quick reaction is the only thing that saves her, and as it is the bullet clips her between neck and shoulder, scoring a burning line over her flesh. Fear is a powerful motivator, and she’s in the bathroom and out the window faster than she would have previously thought humanly possible. Christ. 

“Sherlock,” she hears from back inside the flat. “Sherlock can you hear me?” Thank God for the man’s priorities. She isn’t sure she would be able to get away otherwise. She’s only wearing a coat, not even any shoes, but one of her clients lives nearby and he won’t object to a surprise visit. 

Christ but that was close. 

\----

Seeing Sherlock drugged out of his mind might have been funny, if it was anyone else, Greg thinks. But he’s seen the man under the influence of illegal substances too many times before to find much humour in the situation. Let Sally and Anderson think he is filming it on his phone for laughs if they want to, but that’s not why he’s doing it at all. No, it is evidence he’s after. Evidence of a crime committed by one Irene Adler. 

John shares his opinion on the matter, if the glares he is giving them as they help Sherlock out to one of the police cars are anything to go by. That man has the patience of a saint to spend any extended amount of time with Sherlock Holmes, but he’s also very protective, and it shows. Lestrade tries to make things as painless as possible for them both. Get it over with quickly. He can’t really blame his team; they don’t know the full story behind Sherlock’s past, they’ve never seen what he was doing to himself before Greg started letting him onto crime scenes, all they know is the arrogant genius who puts them down and never follows procedure. (A case thrown out for broken chain of custody and contaminated evidence is theoretically better than a case never solved at all, but only just.) It’s understandable but that doesn’t make it right.

In any case, Sherlock and John are well on their way home by the time they actually get into the house properly and find the bodies. Three dead and one unconscious, to be precise. Three men are lying in the lounge, one shot and two with horrific knife wounds. Blood is everywhere, still liquid. They can’t have been dead more than half an hour, if that. It’s hardly the worst thing he’s ever seen, but it’s still a shock. Thankfully the woman they find upstairs isn’t injured, just drugged, and she’s already starting to come around. Lestrade gets someone to phone an ambulance for her. It’s too late for the others.

The real question is just what the fuck happened here. The 999 call that got them here was a report of shots fired, but he hadn’t actually been expecting to find a corpse, let alone three. Now he wishes he’d made Sherlock stay, though it’s not likely they’d get anything useful out of him in his current condition. They should have questioned John. Now Lestrade thinks about it, hadn’t his face been slightly damp, as though it had just been washed? He had taken his coat off, folded it inside out, but there might have been a speck of something red-brown on his shirt collar. He doesn’t like to think it but... a doctor _would_ be good with a knife. And hadn’t he once said something about being in the army? 

Of course it was probably self defence. There are two guns lying abandoned on the floor, after all. He doesn’t know the full story. And yet, and yet... He scrubs a hand across his face, trying to ignore the smell of blood starting to seep into the air like a butcher’s shop. There’s been something strange going on with those two for months now. He’s been feeling wrong about them ever since that case with the bomber, that Moriarty, who had disappeared off the radar in the end, leaving the whole business with an unfinished sort of feeling. He’d never been able to get a satisfying answer out of Sherlock about that. 

He orders the scene to be processed as usual and then he heads back to Scotland Yard. He’ll call Sherlock and John in for questioning at the earliest opportunity tomorrow, and they can get this whole thing straightened out. He hopes. 

When he walks into his office there’s a letter sitting on his desk, once of those big A4 ones. It’s got his name on it, but no stamp, nothing to show who might have sent it. Too small for an explosive, but there are plenty of biological nasties that could be waiting inside. If he was sensible he’d sent it to be thoroughly looked over before he opened it, but he isn’t feeling very sensible today. Instead he simply angles it well away from him as he carefully slits it open with the penknife he keeps in his desk. 

_Sherlock Holmes is a murderer_. Plain black text on white paper. Disbelief is his first reaction, just some weirdo writing unsubstantiated bullshit. This kind of thing isn’t uncommon. There are plenty of people with a beef against Sherlock. But... He turns the sheet over.

 _I have proof. This is the first of many. There are those who will try to stop this from becoming public. Keep this a secret. It is safer for both of us if you don’t know who I am._

There is something else in the envelope. He tips it up and a USB stick slides out onto his desk. He hesitates before he picks it up. Such a small little thing, but if this letter if to be believed, something that could change... well. Everything. He rolls it between his fingers. There could be anything on this. It could be a trick to let some kind of virus onto the police computer system, for all he knows. 

A separate computer then, one not connected to their Intranet. There’s his personal netbook, which is a few years old now and not exactly irreplaceable. He uses it to take work home, but the WiFi can be turned off. And he has to know. 

It’s a tense few minutes starting the little laptop up. He slides the USB in, and clicks on the first file in the folder, one of five. It’s an audio file. No picture, but he would recognise Sherlock’s baritone anywhere. 

“ _The first person I ever killed was Kevin St. James when I was 19 years old..._ ”

\----

Mycroft pays them a visit the following morning. He is less than pleased, and John can’t help but sympathise. Irene Adler _drugged_ Sherlock with an unknown dosage of sedative, it could have killed him if he’d reacted badly and yet the man seems to regard it as a minor transgression along the line of neglecting to offer a guest a cup of tea. What is _wrong_ with him? 

“She’s not interested in blackmail,” Sherlock tells his brother, more concerned, it would seem, with the morning’s paper. “She wants... protection, for some reason. I take it you’ve stood down the police investigation into the murders at her house?”

Mycroft sighs. “Not an easy task, but yes. _Really_ , couldn’t you have been a little more discrete.”

“It was self defence.”

“He’s right, they were threatening to kill us,” John agrees. 

“In any case, the camera phone is her ‘Get out of jail free card’,” Sherlock continues. “So you have to leave her alone. Treat her like royalty.”

“Or kill her,” John says. “Honestly, please do. I’d be happy to oblige.” Sherlock frowns at him and is just opening his mouth to say something when a sudden moan fills the room. 

“Text,” Sherlock says, as if this explains anything. 

“And the noise?” John can’t help the slight growl that creeps into his voice. 

“What about those CIA-trained killers,” Sherlock says, ignoring him and quickly changing the subject. “Were you aware of them when you sent John and me in there?”

Mycroft is quiet for a moment. “No,” he eventually says. “I was not aware of it. You may imagine me to be omniscient, but this is not actually true.”

Sherlock gasps mockingly. “Don’t shatter my illusions, _brother_.”

“In order to avoid similar problems in future you may be sure I will be putting Ms. Adler under all possible surveillance,” Mycroft says. 

“Why bother,” Sherlock replies. “You can follow her on Twitter. I believe her user name is ‘TheWhipHand’.” _And how would_ you _know that?_ John thinks viciously. 

“Most amusing,” Mycroft says, with a tight smile. Abruptly his phone rings, and he raises his eyebrow when he sees whoever is calling. He wanders out into the hallway to take it. John watches him, curious. You pick things up here and there working for Mycroft Holmes, shadows of rumour and gossip. Something is going on. But presumably if his or Sherlock’s skills are needed, they’ll be told. 

“Why does your phone make that noise?” he asks Sherlock, taking the opportunity to press. Sherlock will never give him a straight answer when there’s someone else around as a convenient excuse not to. 

“What noise?”

“You know very well what noise.” And he’s pretty sure he knows who is responsible for it. 

“It’s a text alert. It means I’ve got a text.”

“Your texts don’t usually make that noise.”

“Well somebody got hold of the phone and apparently, as a joke, personalised their text alert noise.”

“So every time they text you...” As if on cue, the phone goes again. John grits his teeth, wondering if it’s something generic or if that really is Adler’s voice. Even if he didn’t hate her for drugging Sherlock, there’s something about her that brings out an irrational jealously in him. It isn’t a nice trait, but there are a lot of things that aren’t very nice about him these days and trying to fight it hasn’t done him any good. Easier to go with the flow, within reason.

“It would seem so.”

“And you don’t know how to get rid of it?”

“No.”

Mrs Hudson pokes her head around from the kitchen, her hands full of a plate of biscuits. “Could you perhaps turn it down a bit Sherlock dear? It’s a bit rude. At my time of life...” And then she’s gone again, tidying up the place, her movements traceable by the clatter of plates and glasses and whatever else Sherlock has left lying about. 

Sherlock checks the phone, making a non-committal sort of hum. He flicks his paper up again hiding his face. Avoidance. Is it even sexual, this strange behaviour? Or merely an intellectual thrill, the knowledge that someone got the better of him. John would have thought that would piss him off, not make him more interested. Perhaps Sherlock has some kind of unspoken kink for being shot up with unknown substances that he hasn’t mentioned? (God, he hopes not, though if that was what Sherlock needed, better it be a trained doctor than anyone else.)

John glares as though he’s capable of burning through several layers of paper. Sherlock isn’t even properly reading it, or he’d be turning the pages more. He’s just being an oversized child, which admittedly is hardly unusual for him. After a short while Mycroft reappears. John catches the tail end of his conversation. 

“Bond Air is go, that’s decided. Check with the Coventry lot. Talk later.”

Sherlock looks over at him as his brother hangs up. John knows that look; something has intrigued him. 

“What else does she have? Irene Adler? The Americans weren’t interested in compromising photographs; not really their area. There’s more.” He tosses the paper down carelessly and gets to his feet. “ _Much_ more.”

Mycroft says nothing, but they’ve been working for him long enough now that John can read by his face that Sherlock is getting too close to something Mycroft would really rather he didn’t know. 

“Something big’s coming, isn’t it?”

“Irene Adler is no longer your concern, either of you. From now on you will stay out of this.”

“Now I know there’s something _interesting_ going on?” Sherlock says. John leans back in his chair, entertaining a daydream of extracting whatever it is through torture. He has a lot of ideas. 

“Yes Sherlock. You _will_ stay away,” Mycroft says, very serious. “Do remember our arrangement, and do as you’re told.”

Sherlock turns his back on him with a shrug, like a cat that’s pretending it was going to do just that all along. He picks up his violin as Mycroft makes to leave. 

“Now if you’ll excuse me, I have a long and arduous apology to make to a very old friend.”

“Do give her my love,” Sherlock says, and begins to play God Save the Queen. John grins, he can’t help it. He does enjoy Sherlock’s sense of humour, even though most people would probably say he hasn’t got one. But no-one knows Sherlock quite like he does. Not even Irene Adler. There’s comfort enough in that.

\----

“Well?” Moriarty demands the moment she walks through the door. Quite how he knew about this flat she’s not sure, seeing as he’s only ever been to her main house. A house that is currently a crime scene, hence coming here.

“It didn’t go entirely to plan,” she admits. “But he’s intrigued. He’ll take the bait.”

“Good,” Jim says. He’s lounging on her sofa in another impeccable Westwood suit, his feet up on the coffee table. If she didn’t know it was there, she’d never be able to tell one was prosthetic. He’s adapted very well, but that doesn’t surprise her. Moriarty strikes her as a man who doesn’t believe in the existence of the word ‘no’ – particularly where it applies to questions like ‘is it right to stab people thirty times with a butter knife’ or ‘should I steal millions from a member of the _vory v zakone_ ’. He’s not about to let a physical limitation get the better of him. 

“Good enough I _suppose_ ,” he says with a theatrical sigh and a roll of his eyes. “Tell me all the gory details.”

She does, making sure to mention the Americans and John Watson’s attempt on her life. Even if she hadn’t agreed to help Moriarty in return for access to his contacts, shooting at her is enough to get anyone on her naughty list. And not the good kind of naughty list.

“That’s _wonderful_ ,” Jim says when she gets to the CIA. “Now they’re sure to believe it when you show up dead.” 

“About that...”

“Oh, I’ll find your body double.” He brushes her concerns away with a wave of his hand. His nose wrinkles up in a way that’s far too _normal_ for an evident psychopath. “He’ll be _sooooo_ disappointed. I’m sure he loved thinking he’d have someone else to play with while I’m gone.”

“Are you sure you need him to break that code?”

“I don’t _need_ him to,” Jim says, suddenly snappish, offended that his own personal genius has been called into question. “I know what it’s about. But it’s the _betrayal_. To be fooled by someone, to pass big brother’s information on to me, his worst enemy.”

“Didn’t your mother ever tell you not to play with your food?”

“Why Ms Adler,” Jim says, with a shark’s grin and a shark’s dead eyes. “I could say the same thing about you.”

\----

It’s been months since they heard anything about Irene Adler, and John is finally starting to relax. Wherever she ran off too after leaving London, she’s long gone, and Sherlock will find something else more interesting to occupy him eventually, even if the usual run of cases on both sides of the law aren’t quite enough to drive her entirely from his mind. Moriarty is still out there somewhere. John is sure they would have found out if he’d died of his wounds. 

It’s Christmas and they’re having their first ever Baker Street Christmas party. It’s just a small affair, the two of them, Mrs Hudson, DI Lestrade and Molly, just enough to be cosy. It almost makes John feel normal, which is a pretty strange sensation these days. It’s nice, to relax for a bit, to pretend he’s the same as regular human beings, that he hasn’t killed scores of people, even if most of it has been on the orders of his country. 

There’s mulled wine, and mince pies which Mrs Hudson baked herself, and shortbread, and port, sherry and brandy. Sherlock has been researching appropriate Christmas tipple, and he’s even condescended to play a few tunes to fit the season on his Stradivarius. They have fairy lights up, Christmas cards on the mantelpiece... it’s even snowing, for God’s sake. John basks in front of the fire feeling pleasantly full from dinner and just the right amount of relaxed from alcohol. It’s just... pleasant. Really, really pleasant, unmarred by interfering dominatrices or criminal masterminds. 

Molly arrives a little late and laden with Christmas shopping. She’s wearing a very flattering black dress under her coat, and John doesn’t miss the way Greg’s jaw drops when he sees her. To his knowledge they don’t actually know each other all that well; there’s an overlap between homicide and the mortuary but as far as he knows Lestrade doesn’t have much to do with the disposal of victims after the initial crime scene. Perhaps he can do a little matchmaking. Greg deserves someone better than his wife, from what he’s heard from Sherlock’s deductions on the matter.

There is one rather dicey moment when he thinks Sherlock is going to say something rather... Sherlockian... about Molly, but he has time to clear his throat in warning and head it off at the pass. He knows about Molly’s crush on Sherlock, but she knows about their relationship. If she’s trying to look nice it’s not out of any real hope of getting his attention. Maybe it’s just for her. Maybe she just wants to feel beautiful. But Sherlock sounded like he was going to take it the wrong way. 

Anyway, disaster averted the evening continues rather nicely, up until that blasted text alert pops up again. It’s the kind of thing that will get a room’s attention, but Sherlock is suddenly deaf and blind to the lot of them, going with slow, almost hesitant steps to the fireplace and picking up an unfamiliar box wrapped in crimson and a heavy rope tassel. John has never seen it before, and he’s sure it hadn’t been there earlier. 

“Excuse me,” Sherlock says suddenly. He whirls about and makes for his room, still clutching the present. John twists in his seat to watch him go, his heart sinking. It’s from _her_ , it has to be. Damn it! 

John follows him, making his excuses to the others. He’s deeply, desperately curious, and when he eases open the door it’s to find Sherlock holding the phone, _her_ phone in his lap, and talking to someone on his own. 

“I think you’re going to find Irene Adler tonight,” he is saying. Then a long pause – it’s probably Mycroft he’s talking to, that would make sense. “No, I mean you’re going to find her dead.” He sounds not sad exactly but... disappointed. Yes that’s it. Disappointed.

It’s a complicated series of emotions that rush through him in that moment. There’s satisfaction that she’s dead, anger that whoever has caught up with her has chosen Christmas of all times to disturb them, and jealousy that she has made Sherlock feel anything, anything at all. Not to mention a good dose of disappointment all of his own that he didn’t get to kill her himself. 

“You okay?” he asks Sherlock once he’s hung up. 

“Yes, of course,” is the reply, but his brow is still creased in a frown. John doubts he’s even aware he’s doing it. “It’s just such a waste of a less than mediocre mind. She had potential.”

“Mycroft is taking you to see the body later? Once he does find her, I mean,” John guesses. Sherlock nods. “I’ll come with.”

“I shan’t let you if you intend to gloat,” Sherlock says, with a more deliberate expression of disapproval. 

“I’ll try and keep it to a minimum.”John hesitates, trying to think of something to cheer him up. “There’s always Moriarty. You know he’ll be back eventually.”

That at least gets a smile. “Yes,” Sherlock says thoughtfully. “He will.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning, John threatens someone in particularly graphic detail in this chapter. Also, he may be something of an unreliable narrator when it comes to Molly.

Irene Adler’s body turns up within the next twenty-four hours, just as Sherlock had predicted, in the late hours of Christmas Day. Mycroft calls as soon as the corpse is delivered to Bart’s. The cab ride over is silent. John can’t read Sherlock’s mood at all. It disturbs him. He’d like to imagine he has become better at working out what his partner is thinking over the past months, an expected consequence of becoming lovers, but right now he’s got nothing. 

There’s little satisfaction to be found when they get to the morgue either, though John is determined to wring every last drop he can out of the situation. He looks calmly at the ruin of Adler’s face. It’s caved in, the bones crushed, those fine zygomatic arches pulverised, the occipital fractured, the mandible cracked like a pot smashed against a wall. There’s a certain artistry in the sheer brutality of it. There’s nothing recognisable left. Nothing but the hair, sleek and glossy black, or the rest of her body, which is utterly untouched. 

John can’t help but think it’s not the way he would have gone about things. This would have been relatively quick, most of the damage done post mortem, and that’s not much fun. He wishes, he really wishes, he’d been the one to kill her. It would have been more appropriate somehow. And maybe it would have made Sherlock less... sad. Unhappy. If there had been a personal touch.

Poor Molly, called in on Christmas of all days, pulls the sheet down so that they can get a better look. “That’s her,” Sherlock says at once. John takes a little longer, but he has to admit it looks like Adler. Same skin tone, same build, same... proportions. He nods. 

“Thank you Miss Hooper,” Mycroft says, calm as always. John thinks there might be a hint of his own satisfaction there as well. Probably. Adler still had those photographs, and who knows what else.

“Who is she?” Molly asks, hesitantly. She looks from John to Sherlock and back. “How did you recognise her from... not her face?” 

“When we met her for the first time she wasn’t wearing any clothes,” John says, then, wanting to reassure her, “It was for a case. Believe me, I wouldn’t have let her near Sherlock if it wasn’t important.” As much as it would disturb Molly to think Sherlock had been cheating on him – she is fond of John, for some reason – it would disturb her more to think they’d been having some sort of threesome, if only because the third person wasn’t her. On a subconscious level at least. Molly seems like the kind of person to bury her jealousy, rather than John’s own, rather more murderous, method. Which is probably healthier, all told. 

Sherlock is already impatient to leave, so with a final smile in Molly’s direction John follows him and his brother out into the corridor. 

“That wasn’t you, was it?” he asks Mycroft, once they’re out of hearing range. “Because if so, I’m a little disappointed you didn’t give us” – _me_ – “the job.”

Mycroft opens his mouth to reply, likely a denial whether it’s the truth or not, but Sherlock beats him to it. “Of course it wasn’t him,” he says, or rather sneers. “Going for the face like that, it was personal. Very personal. A jilted lover, an unhappy client, something along those lines. Perhaps even someone else she possessed photographs of.”

John keeps his eyes fixed on Sherlock’s face as he talks. There’s no flicker of emotion there, but it can be so hard to get emotion of any kind out of Sherlock when he’s trying to hide the fact that he has things as human as feelings that it doesn’t mean anything. That’s the worst of it, that she’s dead and yet she _still_ might have a hold on him. John has no idea whether he’s even being rational at this point. 

“How did you know she was dead?” Mycroft asks. 

“She had an item in her possession, one she said her life depended on. She chose to give it up.” 

Mycroft’s eyes narrow. John is sure he knows _exactly_ what Sherlock is talking about. “And where is this item now?” Sherlock doesn’t answer. Mycroft turns his gaze on John, but he legitimately doesn’t know. Sherlock has it somewhere, but he’s never been able to find things Sherlock really doesn’t want found. 

From down the hall comes the very faint sound of someone crying. Just visible through the glass window in the door is what looks like a family of three. They’re huddled close together. Mourning. It’s a miserable time of the year to have to come identify a loved one, John thinks. He feels sorry for them. He does actually still have most of the emotional range of a regular person, it’s just that he has to work at it a little bit more now, like the feelings are hiding behind a heavy curtain that has to be pulled aside. Not guilt though. He’s never felt guilt for things that have to be done. For things that are necessary for the survival of himself or those he loves.

“Look at them,” Sherlock says, half-way between disgust and fascination. “They all care so much. Do you ever wonder if there’s something wrong with us?” 

“Of course there is,” John says. “I like killing people, and you like to plan how I do it. But that doesn’t mean anything. There’s something wrong with most people. Homicide is just a bit of a statistical outlier, when you think about it.”

“All lives end,” Mycroft says. “All hearts are broken. Caring is not an advantage.” The corners of his lips are curled upwards, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. It seems half-way as though he’s talking to himself. 

“I don’t know about that,” John says. He’s thinking of Sherlock, of course. Love is one emotion his particular mental state does not dull, and he loves Sherlock more than he has loved anyone ever before. It can be terrifying, if he lets himself think about it. Both the depth of his emotion, and all that comes with a life by Sherlock’s side.

“Don’t go all sappy on me just because it’s Christmas,” Sherlock says. His face appears serious but his voice is warm and his eyes are smiling, so John knows he’s just being Sherlock. Mycroft clears his throat. 

“Well, since that piece of business is concluded...” 

“Merry Christmas Mycroft,” Sherlock says. 

“And a Happy New Year.” And that’s their cue to leave.

\----

Greg still isn’t sure how he pulled off an entire evening at a Christmas party with Sherlock Holmes without the man catching on to the fact that he’s suspicious as fuck. In the past few months he hasn’t heard much from his mysterious source, but another package did come, this time containing newspaper clippings for several of the murders he’d heard Sherlock confess to in the recordings, along with some typed notes about the man’s whereabouts at the time. It’s a frankly chilling history of crime, and some of these cases he recognises. He’d worked them himself, and never even suspected...

But that’s always been the fear with Sherlock, hasn’t it. Most vocally expressed by Sally, but Greg has heard the speculation around the yard, just idle cop talk. What if, what if? If Sherlock Holmes truly wanted to kill someone, they’d never be able to prove it. Hell, they probably would never even find a body. But it’s one thing to kill one person, and quite another to kill, what, scores of them, if this is to be believed. 

He’d been in their _house_. He’d sat and watched Sherlock try and socialise with other human beings and do a fairly good job of it, with John’s guidance. The whole thing seems like a sudden stroke of delirium, nothing more than a bad dream. But dreams don’t go on this long. There’s evidence here that he can’t ignore, though not enough for a conviction. Not yet. He doesn’t know what to do. Just wait? For more trickles of horror to appear on his desk? For Sherlock to kill more people (because serial killers don’t stop, not until they’re caught). 

And what about John? They live together, sleep together, they’re _lovers_. Surely he would have noticed... but that’s not being fair to the man. Some serial killers go so far as to get married, and rarely do their partners know the monster hiding in their house. They find out at the same time as everybody else. And yet... He’s always trusted his instincts in the past, and right now they are telling him that even now not everything is as it seems. 

This is not a situation he ever thought he’d be in. He had never been trained for this. It’s eating him up inside and there’s nothing, _nothing_ he can do about it. At least not yet.

\----

Sherlock does not typically believe that emotions are useful. Of course one must understand what they are and how they affect the common, regular, _ordinary_ human being. Emotion is a primary motivator for people’s actions, all the more obvious when it comes to crime. The number of times he has investigated so called ‘crimes of passion’ is in many ways a scathing indictment of the species _homo sapiens_ as a whole. For the most part however, while he is not foolish enough to deny that he has feelings, he will not let himself be ruled by them. Logic is what matters, logic, science, cold hard facts and numbers. Decisions based on sentiment are fundamentally flawed. 

But John, as with all things pertaining to him, is an exception. John is his perfect partner, a man similarly un-plagued by morality, possessed of an artistry for violence and murder, someone to enact all the perfect crimes he dreams up in the small hours of the night when boredom rears its dark and ugly head, a fathomless, all-consuming pit fit to suck at his soul, to wrap around him until all he can hear are his own thoughts, his brain turning on itself and consuming itself alive. For so long another problem to solve was the only thing that would help. But now he has John. And John is always there to kill for him if practical, and it not to give him stimulus, a distraction, to force his mind into a pliant state through the rush of endorphins that accompany pain and submission. 

Irene Adler, on the other hand, was not an exception to his rule about feelings. He is not _maudlin_ about her death. He does not _miss_ her. He misses the wasted opportunity. The possibility of a game, a worthy opponent while Jim lies quiescent, all dashed against the rocks of life – that is what causes him to mourn. Mycroft promised he would not be bored when they made their deal, but what he does provide is merely sufficient. Scraps. No real _challenge_. 

He can feel the threat of boredom in the back of his head. Without Irene he can’t see any hope of anything _interesting_ happening in the next few months. Composing a few melancholic songs is hardly cutting it. Right now he needs what only John can give him, which will do to tide him over until things pick up again. Besides, John is in need of reassurance. Needs to know that Sherlock is his and his only. Giving him that reassurance is not exactly a burden. This is something for both of them, which, he understands, is generally the purpose of having a sex life. 

_Will be waiting for you upstairs, naked, when you return from the shops,_ he texts. 

_Hoping for anything in particular?_ John texts back almost immediately. Sherlock can’t help the smile, the involuntary curl of lips. 

_Surprise me._

\----

Going to Baker Street at all is a risk, but Irene is confident in her plan. Moriarty’s various contacts can do a passable imitation of Mycroft’s own secretive network, and they should be enough to lure John Watson out of the area long enough for her to sneak in, ‘attempt’ to retrieve her phone and be conveniently caught by Sherlock Holmes. At which point they will exchange witty remarks, perhaps attempt to pickpocket one another for said phone, and then she will disappear again, leaving him all the more intrigued. And also with a little surprise, only to reveal itself at the very end of the game. 

Or at least that’s the idea. It doesn’t go off quite as she imagined it. 

John Watson’s hand is around her throat, pinning her to the wall. He’s strong, though you wouldn’t necessarily think it to look at him. She struggles, of course she does, but his grip is relentless, his body pinning hers down. His eyes... god, his eyes. There’s mere inches between them, and it’s like having a wolf there ready to tear her throat out and eat her remains. 

“I don’t know how you faked your death and I don’t really care,” he says, in a conversational sort of tone. “If you were smart you would have stayed away. I wanted to be the one to kill you, and now it looks like I’m going to get my wish.”

She chokes against the pressure on her neck, tries to protest, but she can’t seem to force the air out of her lungs. 

“I suppose that was you with the car and the beautiful woman? Did you really think that trick would fool me? I know the people Mycroft sends, I’ve met them. He always tells us about new hires. I’m not Sherlock, but I’m not stupid. I thought it was Moriarty though, so that’s one less thing to worry about.” He bares his teeth at her. It’s not a smile any more than a tiger smiles before goes in for the kill. She turns her head away, unable to look. _Nothing_ is worth this, not the money, not the power, she should never have gone to Moriarty with that offer, should never have taken him in when he needed help, nothing. “But not quickly. I want it to last. I want to tie you to the bed and force hallucinogens down your throat, and then I’ll whip you until your back is ribbons while you hallucinate the most horrible things. See how you like being drugged.” His voice is quiet, like the devil whispering in her ear. 

“I’ll rub salt all over your wounds. I’ll crisp your skin into crackling with a blowtorch.” He hums, a low, pleased sound. “Perhaps some pepper as well for seasoning. I’ll cut the tendons in your legs so you can’t run away, but I’ll leave the nerves alone so you can still feel. I’ll need to keep injecting you with adrenaline so you don’t pass out on me, but not too much. Wouldn’t want your heart to give out. I’ll break each and every bone in your hands, to teach you not to touch what isn’t yours. I’ll probably be hard by that point, but I won’t fuck you. That’s not what this is about.” He pauses, tightens his stranglehold for a moment. It doesn’t make much difference, she’s nearly hyperventilating as it is. One far-away part of her is still listening to his description of what he’s going to do to her, but the rest is too frightened to register much. The most terrifying thing is how normal he sounds, despite his actual words.

“Or maybe I will in the end, but with a knife. I’ll carve you up and flay you from pubic symphysis to coccyx. I’ll...”

“John.” The voice is deep and disapproving, and she could weep with joy to hear it. The grip on her throat is suddenly gone and she sags against the wall, taking deep gasping breaths. Usually she is the on the other end of _that_ particular equation, she thinks, rather too hysterically for her own personal liking. Still, it’s excusable. It’s the first time she has ever been in genuine fear for her life. 

John Watson steps back, folding his arms across his chest. The monster inside him has been shut back into its cage, leaving a deceptively ordinary looking man in an Arran jumper and dark jeans. Behind him Sherlock looms in the shadows, his eyes narrowed in the way of one just woken from sleep. He’s in a dressing gown. She can see his feet, strikingly pale against the floor. It’s so abrupt, this return to normality, domesticity, that the past minutes would seem almost a dream or waking nightmare if it wasn’t for the pain in her neck, the promise of future bruises.

“You’re here for a reason,” Sherlock Holmes says, sounding impatient. “What is it?” 

“I might have just come to tell you I’m still alive.” The words rush out too fast, betraying her. It’s a bad idea to show fear to predators.

“No. If that was all you’d have sent a text, we both know you have my number.” His eyes rake over her, cold and impersonal. “You want something.”

Irene gathers her composure. If she is careful she will still make it out of this alive, though if she does she intends to give Jim Moriarty a piece of her mind. “I need it back. My insurance.”

“Why now? Staying dead not working out for you?” Despite his words she can tell Sherlock is pleased to see her. It’s in his eyes, the hint of a smile pulling at his lips. “It must be urgent to risk coming here. I’m sure it didn’t escape your notice that John doesn’t like you very much.”

“He did fire a gun at me,” she replies, keeping her voice level. “You don’t seem very concerned that I know he wants to kill me.”

“You’re not the type to go to the police,” Sherlock says.

She dips her head slightly in acknowledgement, going back to his original question. “They’ll work it out eventually, the people who’re after me. It can’t stay here. It’s not safe. They’ll send others...”

“The same sort of people we met at your flat, you mean.” 

“Yes. And next time my death might not be fake.”

“Mm, that’d be a pity wouldn’t it,” John Watson mutters under his breath.

She doesn’t react. “So where is it? My camera phone.”

“Not here of course,” John says. “We’re not stupid, we knew there’d be people after it.” She can’t tell if he’s lying or not. His face is blank, placid as chill arctic waters. 

“Then what have you done with it? Even if they haven’t made a move yet they’ll have you under surveillance.”

“If they’ve been watching me,” Sherlock says, “they’ll know I took a safety deposit box at a bank on the Strand a few months ago.”

“Then we need to get it. I need it. I need what’s on it.”

“Hmm, and what would that be?” he asks. 

“Pictures, information, things I might find useful.”

“What, for blackmail?” John chiming in again, though he’s one to be talking about wrongdoing. Irene doesn’t particularly care about society’s rules, but she’s never killed someone and she never intends to. 

“For protection,” she corrects. “I make my way in the world; I misbehave. I like to know people will be on my side exactly when I need them to be.”

“I don’t suppose I need to ask how you acquire such information.” Micro-expressions and body language once more tell her there’s a hint of something interested there. She’s not sure he’s even consciously aware of it, it might just be a learned response to the promise of a certain kind of stimuli, but that doesn’t mean she can’t take advantage of it. Provided John doesn’t notice, of course. “This time though... this time you’ve acquired something that’s more danger than protection.”

“Yes but...” she pauses, as though it’s a blow to her pride to admit this, “I don’t understand it. Otherwise I’d have used it to get them off my back for good.” The plan had been to wait a while longer before bringing this up, but it seems now will have to do. 

“I assumed,” Sherlock says. He dips his hand into his pocket and there it is. Oh yes, very secure with that kind of hiding place. She should have known they were lying about the deposit box. She might roll her eyes if this didn’t work out to her advantage. Easier to pick a pocket than a lock. Still something must creep into her expression, for he continues, “Oh, you needn’t worry. Despite appearances there are few safer places in London than Baker Street, unless you’re _very_ clever which is doubtful of the CIA. John and I can take care of ourselves.” She doesn’t doubt it. Not after all this. “Now, show me.”

She reaches out her hand for the phone, but he draws it back out of her reach. 

“The passcode.”

“Surely the great Sherlock Holmes would have been able to figure it out without my help?” She risks a smile, keeps her hand out. She needs to get her hands on the phone one way or the other to leave Jim’s surprise, but this would be easiest. Finally Sherlock narrows his eyes at her and thrusts the phone in her general direction. Clearly he doesn’t appreciate the slight on his deductive abilities. 

“There was a man, an MOD official,” she says, turning to the side to obscure her hands from view as she types in her code. The phone is hers, she knows the heft, the tiny marks that accumulate over time no matter how careful the handling. She wouldn’t have put it past Sherlock to commission a copy in an attempt to trick her but for that he would have needed to know she was still alive. He hadn’t. The surprise on seeing her had been genuine – Moriarty does good work. 

“I knew what he liked.” It’s sleight of hand at that point. When this is all played out, when they’ve won as she’s still sure they will, it’s going to be a delight to see his face. Perhaps not actually in person if she has any choice about it – Irene is just about done risking her life for riches and power. That’s one of the many benefits of modern technology though. “One of the things he liked was showing off. He told me this e-mail was going to save the world. He didn’t know it, but I photographed it.”

She has done what she needed to, and so she hands the phone back to Sherlock, the photograph clearly visible on the screen. He locks on to it with deadly intensity. 

“He was a bit tied up at the time.” Fond memories. He had been an excellent customer, but he seems to have dropped off the map lately. _Someone_ had worked out he’d let her see the email, even if they hadn’t known for certain that she’d made a copy of her own. Perhaps Mycroft Holmes, perhaps someone else of the same type and job description. It doesn’t really matter. She imagines her client is dead now. Well. It can’t be helped. “It’s a bit small on the screen – can you read it?”

“Yes.” His pale blue-green eyes are lit from beneath by the glow of the screen, held close to his face in the off-yellow half-light coming in through the window from the streetlights outside. Beside him Watson leans in for a quick look, though he’s careful not to take his eyes off her for long. 

“It’s code, obviously,” she lies, since Jim told her that much at least. “I had one of the best cryptographers in the country take a look at it – though he was mostly upside down, as I recall.” Yes, with his legs hooked over the back of the couch watching TV with the sound off, because that was the sort of thing James Moriarty apparently did to pass the time. Something about lip reading in disadvantageous situations being a useful skill. She didn’t enquire further. “He couldn’t solve it. But he wasn’t _you_ Mr Holmes.”

She won’t fool herself; it’s not her personal charms that have him so interested, so focused on solving the puzzle she has presented for him. It’s just the thrill of the game. It’s her brain he likes, which would be less disturbing if it didn’t come from an alleged serial killer. Probable serial killer. Thankfully a brain removed from its skull can’t function so she thinks she’s safe from him at least. 

She can see the moment he gets it, when the tiny movements of his eyes tracking information invisible to the rest of them halt, when his eyebrows rise just slightly in realisation. When he begins to explain the words trip out of his mouth with such rapidity that she’s surprised he has room to breathe. 

“There’s a margin for error, but I’m pretty sure there’s a Seven Forty-Seven leaving Heathrow tomorrow at six thirty in the evening for Baltimore. Apparently it’s going to save the world. Not sure how that can be true but give me a moment; I’ve only been on the case for eight seconds.” When he looks up from the screen there’s nothing but satisfaction on his face. It seems he works best when he’s trying to impress someone, particularly an opponent. It’s still _very_ quick. Even quicker perhaps than Jim. 

“Oh come on,” Sherlock says when he sees Watson’s expression of confusion, turning the screen to show them both. “It’s _not_ code. These are seat allocations on a passenger jet. Look: there’s no letter ‘I’ because it can be mistaken for a ‘1’; no letters past ‘K’ – the width of the plane is the limit. The numbers always appear randomly and not in sequence but the letters have little runs of sequence all over the place – families and couples sitting together. Only a Jumbo is wide enough to need the letter ‘K’ or rows past fifty-five, which is why there’s always an upstairs. There’s a row thirteen, which eliminates the more superstitious airlines. Then there’s the style of the flight number – zero zero seven – that eliminates a few more; and assuming a British point of origin, which would be logical considering the original source of the information, and assuming from your urgency in turning up where you know John wants to kill you that this crisis is imminent, the only flight that matches all the criteria and departs within the week is the six thirty to Baltimore tomorrow evening from Heathrow Airport.”

Irene doesn’t have to fake admiration, that much is real. She’s not the only one feeling it; there’s a warm smile on Watson’s face that he doesn’t seem to be aware is there – she can’t imagine him letting his guard down on purpose while she’s still around. Looking at him, it is again hard to see him as a murderer. For a moment their eyes meet, and Watson takes a slight step closer to Sherlock. His meaning is clear: _mine_. She’d like to tell him she _knows_ , she _gets it_ by now, but he wouldn’t believe her. It will be over soon anyway. 

“Would you check the flight schedules for me John, see if I’m right?” Sherlock asks. Watson nods, a brisk, military motion and goes to the table nearby where his laptop is sitting. Irene takes advantage of the moment’s distraction to slip her hand into her jacket pocket to her other phone. She can text by touch, she’s spent enough time practising it. Never know when you’re going to need the skill. Moriarty will get the signal that Sherlock has done what he needed him to do. If everything goes as planned, this will be the last time she sees these pair in the flesh. She’ll be out of the country by nightfall, once Jim has fulfilled his end of the bargain. 

“Yes, you were right,” John says after some while. “Flight double oh seven.” _Really Mycroft_ , Irene thinks. _Really?_

“What did you say?” Sherlock strides over to look at the laptop himself, a whirl of fabric like an elegant tornado. 

“You’re right.”

“No, no, no, after that. What did you say after that?”

“Double oh seven. Flight double oh seven.” It is obvious, Irene has to admit. Perhaps it wasn’t Mycroft who actually named the thing, on second thoughts and from what she’s heard of the man from Jim he doesn’t seem like the time to watch Bond films. Maybe an underling.

Sherlock is repeating the words quietly to himself, over and over again. Has he really not made the connection yet? Actually, has he even _seen_ those movies? It would be somewhat hilarious if he hasn’t. 

“There was something... something connected to double oh seven...” He keeps on muttering to himself, pacing up and down, his partner looking at him in confusion. His eyes go to the door, or more specifically the hallway outside it and once again she can see the moment of discovery like someone has thrown a switch in the man’s brain. 

She can’t stay long after this. She’ll have to make her excuses and go, mock-unwillingly leaving the phone behind. Not safe to stay anywhere Mycroft Holmes might see her; she knows he has surveillance in the area. 

At least then it will be over. 

\----

Jim is sitting on the bed of a room in the Marriott County Hall Hotel facing Westminster when he gets Irene’s text. It’s rather less upscale than his usual choice of accommodation, but it has the best view of Parliament. Somewhere over there, behind one of those lit up windows shining out into the night is Mycroft Holmes, the traitor, betrayer. He has no idea that his little brother has just betrayed him in his turn. Treason is such a _nasty_ word, like execution, and extradition and exsanguination, and other things starting with 'ex'. Even Mycroft has to answer to someone, which is just one of the many reasons Jim is on this side of the law (aside from his complete and utter lack of morals and the fact that one of the few things that gives him pleasure is seeing other people in agony both mental and physical, that is). Does the Ice Man care enough about his baby brother to protect him? Let’s wait and see.

 _Jumbo Jet,_ he texts. _Dear me Mr Holmes, dear me._ On the opposite shore of the Thames the Clock Tower is shining gold, and Big Ben starts to peal out the hour, once, twice. Once, he planned to bring it all crashing, tumbling down, and he imagines for a moment that the glow is flames instead of plain lights, that there is smoke rising in billowing clouds like soft pillows into the sky. But it’s not going to happen. He’s not going to last that long. There is barbed wire in his head, all tangled round him, and he can’t move without it cutting deeper. The body is cannibalistic, consuming itself at need, his more than most. He and Sherlock are alike in this, and he had though that together two broken things might have been enough to make one whole. But now there is nothing new left in the world, no crime he has not stuck his fingers in, no foul deed he has not at least tried, whether it was to his taste or not. There had been something about Sebastian that patched the gaping hole inside him, but he’s gone now so what’s the point. 

That’s right, there is none. There is no higher purpose to life, there is just surviving, just staying alive and that’s it. Everything dies in agony. ‘Bastian died, and the only thing that’s keeping Jim from digging out his sniper’s favourite pistol and blowing his brains out is that he hasn’t had his revenge yet. 

This is not going to be enough to pay Mycroft back, not really, but it’ll do for a start. First Mycroft, then Sherlock, then Watson. Watson the last and Watson the worst because he’s the one who ruined everything, and he’s the one who killed Sebastian. He likes his knives, does John Watson, sharp and slicing, skinning. He’s tracked some of the work he’s done for Mycroft, knows his style now. He did it, and so Jim is going to make him _hurt_. 

He rubs his leg absently where the prosthesis sits. See how he likes it to lose someone he loves.


End file.
